


Listen to Your Lizard Brain

by jujubiest



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Light Improvisational Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eobard Thawne is back, and seems to have made irritating Harrison Wells his life's mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen to Your Lizard Brain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [preussisch_blau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/preussisch_blau/gifts).



> Beta'd by the amazing punk-rock-yuppie, whom you should all thank because I probably would never have posted this without their help!

Eobard Thawne was back. Again. He'd shown up out of nowhere, nearly given Joe West several heart attacks, and—thanks to some quick work on the part of Caitlin, Cisco, and Barry—promptly found himself confined to S.T.A.R. Labs via power suppressants and an ankle monitor.

Why? Because Barry and his friends were too damn noble to exterminate him like the pest he was.

And worst of all, he was somehow still wearing Harry’s _face_. Which meant Harry was stuck looking at the shadow that had haunted him since he'd stepped into this world, practically 24/7. For the first time since she'd left, he was glad Jesse wasn't anywhere nearby.

Of course, the moment Eobard realized that he made Harry uncomfortable he began following him around constantly. And continued to do so, for a solid week. Wherever he went, Eobard followed. He even tried hiding out in the time vault to get away from him, but of course...the crafty bastard had designed the building, he knew about the vault and how to get inside.

"Doesn't anybody stay dead in this universe?!" He finally exploded, tossing his notebook full of equations across the small room. He couldn't focus on anything with that infuriating, unsettling, unnecessarily _chipper_ mirror image hovering around him all the time.

Eobard smiled— _Harry’s_ smile, but not. It just made him even more furious. Which, of course, just made Eobard smile wider. Damn him.

"Now, is that any way to talk about your doppelganger?” Eobard asked, clearly enjoying himself.

Harry rounded on him and advanced with one threatening finger extended.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said bluntly. "I don't care whose face you're wearing, you are not any version of me. We have absolutely nothing in common."

Eobard, unlike nearly everyone else here, was unfazed by his display of temper. He didn't even take a step back, which resulted in Harry standing uncomfortably close to his double. Not that he was going to back down, oh no.

"I don't know about that, Dr. Wells," Eobard said, his voice gone dangerously soft and his mouth still smiling that slightly unsettling smile. "We aren't as different as you might like to think."

Eobard raked his eyes over him as he said it, and Harry felt his anger rising like a physical phenomenon, like heat lightning crackling between them.

Anger, and _nothing_ more, he insisted to himself. Despite what Eobard's leering insinuated.

"You're disgusting," he spat, and made as if to turn away.

He didn't get far. Eobard may have been robbed of his speed for the time being, but he could still move surprisingly fast. Before Harry could step back, Eobard had grabbed him by both arms, spun them around, and slammed him against the nearest wall. His head cracked against the hard surface, and he let out a grunt that was equal parts surprise and pain. He struggled to push Eobard away, but found to his chagrin that they were evenly matched. He wasn't getting away easily.

"I have his memories," Eobard said, voice lowered to nearly a growl. He leaned in, pressing the length of his body against Harry’s.. "I know how he thought, how he felt...about everything. So no, perhaps I can't tell you what _you're_ thinking right at this moment. But I can tell you what he would be thinking."

Harry had a sinking feeling he knew already as, to his own horror, he melted into the contact.

There was no science, math, or logic in any universe that could explain how he was feeling in that moment, why he suddenly _wanted_. He should despise this man— _did_ despise him, the murdering pretender who wore his face like some grotesque party mask.

But he still wanted, like burning, a desire so deep and so shameful that only Eobard's unexpected and completely unsubtle appeal to his lizard brain could ever have brought it to the surface.

He wanted to _know_ this man, to experience him, to know the things that made him tick on a basic, animal level. A part of him even thought it would somehow separate them, once and for all, proving—if to no one but themselves—that they had nothing in common beneath the surface.

Eobard's noise of gleeful surprise was swallowed up in Harry's mouth, and he counted that a small victory. Eobard had clearly expected this to be much more difficult.

Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you would like to think, professor, he gloated inwardly.

He celebrated outwardly by nipping, a little more sharply than necessary, at Eobard's bottom lip, prompting another growl that rumbled over his lips and ignited _something_ all over his skin.

No pretending it was only anger, now.

Harry reached for his shirt and began to lift it over his head, but he only got it half way off before hands were on him, restraining. A simple tug and twist later, and Harry found that his shirt was off, but his arms were trapped securely together in front of him.

He glared incredulously at Eobard, who only grinned benignly back. Bastard. Harry decided to let it go; he could probably tear his way out if he really wanted to. But he liked that shirt.

 _And maybe_ , his traitorous brain whispered, _you don’t really want to._

Eobard's hands kept that train of thought from getting any further, roaming over the exposed skin of Harry’s arms, surprisingly gentle. He chuckled as his fingers teased their way under the edge of the thin fabric of Harry’s t-shirt.

"Two shirts, Harrison? Really? I happen to know you have no reason whatsoever to be so modest."

"I have...scars," He bit out, gasping a little as one of those hands— _his_ hands, but not—crept up along his side, skirting the edge between stimulating and ticklish.

"Everyone has scars. I have a few myself.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Show me,” he demanded, if only to deter Eobard from asking to see his own.

The hands on him stilled, then retreated entirely. Eobard stepped back and lifted the shirt from his own shoulders, tossing it aside. Harry’s mouth went a little dry at the sight of all that bared skin.  
  
It was surreal, to be looking at...at _himself_ , like _this_. He was not an overly insecure man, but he had also never thought of himself as an object of desire before, at least not from a purely physical standpoint. And this was, for all intents and purposes, his body.

Except that it wasn't. It was something wholly apart from him; identical on a genetic level, perhaps, but markedly strange to him in the macro sense. And there were, indeed, scars he didn't have: a plethora of small, slightly-raised, pinkish slash marks, each no more than an inch or so in length, scattered across Eobard's chest and back.

Harry was mildly horrified to realize he'd begun straining unconsciously against his makeshift bindings, wanting badly to reach out and touch. He stopped moving immediately, but Eobard had seen, and a truly wicked smile lit on his lips.

He moved forward, crowding into Harry's space once more. All that naked, scarred skin sent trickles of heat fluttering down through Harry’s veins every place it touched.

"I didn't know a speedster could scar," he said softly, eyes lingering on the bare shoulders just under his gaze, streaked with those marks just like the rest of him.

Eobard chuckled, a touch ruefully.

"A speedster doesn't, normally," he said, his eyes focused on Harry's mouth. "But if the concentration of speed force energy in one's cells is low enough or if the injury is gruesome enough..." he lingered with unpleasant relish on the word _gruesome_.

"...well," he continued, "let's just say I got these while my connection to the speed force was...on sabbatical."

"Aha," Harry murmured. "I suppose that's...ironic justice."

Eobard’s grin went a little strange, a gleefully feral thing that Harrison was sure had never appeared his own face.

"I knew I liked you," he said, voice disconcertingly fond. "You're so much...rougher around the edges than the others I've met."

"How many of me...us...have you met?"

"Oh, plenty. Far too many, really. But I have to say, you're by far the most fun."

Harrison's stomach twisted—not unpleasantly—at the hungry look on Eobard's face as he said it. He wasn't sure if it promised pleasure or pain. Possibly both.

"Well," he said, trying to keep the ache he felt out of his voice. "Since you have me here, a captive audience," he gestured with his trapped arms, "why not make the most of it?"

There was a dangerous gleam in Eobard's eye as he took Harrison by the shoulders and turned him gently around, pressing him face-first into the wall.

"Oh," he practically cooed. "I intend to."

He slid up behind Harry, close and hot against his back, and reached around to undo the buttons on his jeans. He pressed his mouth to Harry's neck as he did so, not really a kiss so much as a possessive gesture, before he leaned in and took one of Harry’s earlobes between his teeth. He bit down gently as he reached into the undone waistband of Harry's jeans and palmed his semi-hard cock through his boxers.

Harry hissed in a sharp breath, but resolutely made no other sound. They were, after all, still in the lab...anyone might hear and decide to investigate.

But Eobard was having none of that. Abandoning pretext, he slipped his hand inside Harry's boxers.

"I take it the time vault in your lab isn't soundproofed," Eobard crooned in his ear as he worked him to full hardness. "You're in luck...this one is. So feel free...to make all...the noise...you...want."

He punctuated every other word with a stroke of his hand.

Harry bit off another low hiss; he knew better than to take Eobard at his word. He might be telling the truth...or he might be hoping everyone in the building would hear what they were up to.

Eobard leaned in more, pressing Harry harder against the wall and latching onto his neck with lips and just the barest scrape of teeth, his hand never stopping.

Shit. Harry closed his eyes and breathed heavy through his nose. He refused to give the other man the satisfaction of knowing he'd found a spot so easily.

Eobard pulled back and gave him an amused smile.

"Harry, Harry...do you really think the strong, silent act is fooling me? I know you. I know this body...well," he huffed a laugh, "like the back of my own hand."

His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in close enough to let his lips just brush the shell of Harry's ear. He shivered in spite of himself.

"I could take you apart and put you back together, and you would love every minute of it."

"Look, professor," Harry said, the mocking tone he intended falling a little flat due to breathlessness. "Small talk may be a turn on for you, but that is one point on which our worlds most definitely diverged."

"Very well. I can think of things I'd rather be doing with my mouth, anyway."

Which...he didn't mean...

Harry craned his neck to see what was happening behind him. Eobard was sinking to his knees, pulling Harry’s jeans and boxers the rest of the way down as he went.  
  
He lost the battle against making noise pretty quickly after that.

* * *

Sometime later—Harry couldn't have told how long if his life depended on it—he found himself slumped against the wall, arms still bound in front of him, pants done up again and an unbearably smug Eobard Thawne practically preening against his side.

He knew no more about what made the man tick than he had before, but he’d certainly learned a few things about himself he’d never considered. He couldn't even be that upset with himself about it.

Just for instance…Harry wasn't normally the overly affectionate type after sex—or ever—but Eobard didn't make him feel nearly as crowded or smothered as most people he'd slept with. He seemed to know just where to put his arms and legs to keep from getting too tangled or too overlapped...close enough to touch, just far enough away for breathing room.

Harry found that he wanted his arms free so that he could touch.

He wriggled his wrists experimentally and found that when he pulled just right, he slid out of the improvised trap easily, first one arm and then the other. He extricated himself from the shirtsleeves and tossed the garment aside. Then he reached out with one arm and drew Eobard in closer.

He went willingly enough, but with a small murmur that Harry thought sounded far too self-satisfied.

"Shut up," he said, feigning more venom than he was actually able to feel in his current, sated state. "You've proven nothing."

"Whatever you say, doctor," Eobard mocked lightly.

Harry shook his head. The man was still exasperating, but the majority of the heat that fueled Harry’s prior ire had dissipated. He stifled a groan.

Eobard was _never_ going to leave him alone now.


End file.
